


Winter: a fic in three (short) parts

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-29
Updated: 2012-11-29
Packaged: 2017-11-19 19:44:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For fishays on the occasion of the Johnlock Gift Exchange</p><p>Three months of winter, three short stories about everyone's favorite couple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. December

It had gotten cold out that December. The perennial rain had turned to snow, London was covered in a fine dusting of frost, and John Watson had taken to layering jumper upon jumper to stay warm.

That weekend was a Case Weekend, as he had begun to think of them. Some poor bastard had gotten himself, his wife, and his three kids shot. The crime scene was a bad one: particularly bloody with a low chance of getting a breath of fresh air. 

But it makes Sherlock happy, John thought as he watched his flatmate order the Yarders about. And if Sherlock was happy, he was happy. 

He’d been coming to terms recently with the fact that Sherlock Holmes was becoming more and more important to him. He didn’t know why, or how (well, maybe he knew how, but he didn’t want to admit it even to himself), but at this point he didn’t care.

“John?” The doctor blinked to see the detective standing right in front of him. He wrinkled his brow; when had that happened?

“Yeah, sorry, must’ve—“ he started, focusing on Sherlock’s face. 

“We have to go. Outside, now,” Sherlock interrupted. John sighed, nodded, and followed the already flowing black coat down three flights of stairs and out the front door.

“What are we doing?” asked John rather hazily. Truth be told, he was starting to get distracted by even Sherlock’s eyes alone. Are they blue, or green? He felt like maybe he could just stare a little…

“Calling a taxi. If I ask for the one driver—“ Sherlock cleared his throat and began speaking into the phone in a slightly different accent and tone of voice. “Yes, can I please have a cab at 45 Coleman Street? And—and can you send Russell? Thanks.”

John looked at him quizzically. 

“If I’m right,” the detective said, “Russell Johnson doesn’t exist.”

“So… you asked the taxi company to send him here?” John rubbed his arms—the sun had gone down and it was starting to snow.

“We’ll be waiting here for him. If he doesn’t come, then we know who killed the Johnsons.” Sherlock seemed particularly proud of himself. Of course, John still hadn’t made the connection, but he figured it didn’t matter.

They waited. And waited, and waited, until it had been nearly half an hour. Sherlock paced anxiously back and forth on the pavement while John watched him, contemplating how the detective’s hair worked and growing increasingly colder. He’d only worn one jumper today, as he didn’t plan on standing in the snow at night.

The next time Sherlock turned around, he saw John breathing out clouds of warm air and rubbing his arms furiously to try to keep warm. He frowned and changed his course, heading towards his flatmate, who had turned around to face the building.

“Here.” John jumped to hear Sherlock’s voice behind him. He started to turn around, then felt warm fabric against his back. It was Sherlock’s coat—he’d never seen him willingly give it to anyone, except Irene Adler.

“Arms.” John complied, sticking his hands through the holes in the sides of the jacket. He hugged the fabric to himself for a moment, attempting to absorb all the heat it held, then turned around to face Sherlock.

“Aren’t you cold?” he asked. 

Sherlock smiled a little half smile and stepped closer to his flatmate. “Not particularly,” he said. 

John was a little flustered—why were they standing so close together? why had he been given the precious overcoat? why, in god’s name, were Sherlock’s cheekbones so pronounced? was he wearing the purple shirt? and what was he doing moving closer? 

“Um,” John said.

And then Sherlock’s lips were on his, and everything was quiet and peaceful and happy and his. 

When they broke apart, John didn’t exactly have the ability to speak. Sherlock did it for him: “Warmer yet?”

John only shook his head and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck. They didn’t part for a long time.


	2. January

A month after Sherlock and John realized that they were—and, in fact, had always been—a couple, Sherlock opened his eyes to see his partner laying next to him in their now-shared bed. The two were intertwined from their feet to their heads, and so Sherlock had to untangle himself to glance over at the clock. The glowing blue numbers blinked 4:17. 

Sherlock sighed. Too early to get out of bed, too late to consider going back to sleep. He didn’t mind, though, because finally he had something he could study completely thoroughly. 

John, he thought. That was the only idea he needed to get himself through the hours until the sun tried its best to rise over London. He settled himself comfortably on his side, bare skin pressed up against the sheets, and looked.

He saw the remnants of the bullet wound on his shoulder: Afghanistan, not Iraq.   
The small movements of his body: he was sleeping well, finally without nightmares.  
Faint lines around his eyes and mouth: aging—but doing it well, Sherlock thought—and happy.

Sherlock reached out, slow and careful, and placed his hand over John’s, trying to be careful not to wake him up. Ever the military man, however, John’s eyes immediately snapped open.

The two stared at each other for a moment, neither willing to break the silence, until Sherlock simply said: “Good morning.”

John rolled his eyes, pointing out that 4:29 AM certainly wasn’t the morning, but trailed off upon looking over his lover’s shoulder. He smiled a little half-smile, only inciting Sherlock’s curiosity.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Snow.”

“Snow?” Sherlock’s eyes were suddenly wide.

“Yes, Sherlock. Snow.”

And with that, Sherlock was already out of the bed and over at the window. He shoved it open wide, not even stopping to flinch at the cold on his bare skin, and stuck his head out the window. He squinted at the graying sky and the layer of frost on the ground as John groaned, rolled over, and closed his eyes once again.

Sherlock turned and inhaled a quick breath as if to speak, then stopped when he saw John sleeping. Pausing for only a moment, he crossed the room to where his dressing gown was hanging, reached into the pocket, and strode into the kitchen.

A moment later, John wearily opened his eyes to a buzzing coming from the nightstand. Upon closer inspection he realized that it was his phone, and he had a text message:

Snow!  
SH


	3. February

On the second Thursday in February, John turned up at 221B after he was done working with a small box in his hands. He took off his coat, crossed through the living room, and approached Sherlock, who sat unmoving at his microscope in the kitchen.

John stood impatiently directly in front of the detective, who didn’t look up.

He tried clearing his throat, first quietly, then louder. Sherlock remained still.

John sighed. “Um,” he said as if trying to prove a point. And then: “Sherlock.” 

Sherlock sighed, tilted his head ever so slightly, and glanced up at John. “Yes?” he asked. Smiling, John produced the box, which upon further inspection turned out to be a collection of small chocolates.

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“Is it Valentine’s Day?” Sherlock stood up, walked around the table, and began to examine the chocolates.

“Yep. February 14th.” John watched his partner, slightly bemused. It was very like Sherlock to have deleted such a fact from his memory. He would have found it ‘trivial’.

“Then why do you have chocolates?” John took a moment to make sure Sherlock was serious, and then—very patiently, as he would later be proud of—explained that that’s “just what people do”.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and stood up from the microscope. “Is it?”

“Yes, Sherlock.” 

“For Valentine’s Day?” After an exasperated glance from John, Sherlock sighed. “Valentine’s Day isn’t exactly a romantic holiday, John. Saint Valentine was just performing marriage ceremonies—it’s love of Christianity, not romantic love, and he was executed anyw—“ 

Sherlock was quickly silenced by something on his mouth. It took him a moment to notice it was John’s lips, but when he did, he was more than happy to shut up. He wound one hand in John’s hair, the other carefully placing the box of chocolates on the desk behind him. 

Sherlock and John were perfectly happy with Valentine’s Day.


End file.
